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POETRY: A sliver of the moon lost in the belly of a golden frog.
Carl Sandburg
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Carl Sandburg
Age: 89 †
Born: 1878
Born: January 6
Died: 1967
Died: July 22
Biographer
Historian
Journalist
Musicologist
Novelist
Poet
Screenwriter
Trade Unionist
Writer
Galesburg
Illinois
Carl August Sandburg
Moon
Poetry
Lost
Sliver
Frog
Frogs
Belly
Golden
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Poetry is a dance music measuring buck-and-wing follies along with the gravest and stateliest dead-marches.
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Poetry is a section of river-fog and moving boat-lights, delivered between bridges and whistles, so one says, 'Oh!' and another, 'How?'
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I have often wondered what it is an old building can do to you when you happen to know a little about things that went on long ago in that building.
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All my life I have been trying to learn to read, to see and hear, and to write.
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Lay me on an anvil, O God. Beat me and hammer me into a steel spike.
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Why does a hearse horse snicker, hauling a lawyer away?
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The woman named Tomorrow sits with a hairpin in her teeth and takes her time
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Never will a time come when the most marvelous recent invention is as marvelous as a newborn child.
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I remember in my early 20s when I felt I couldn't live past 30. I was learning how to write. I had a lot of hard work ahead of me.
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There was always the consolation that if I didn't like what I wrote I could throw it away or burn it.
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I stayed away from mathematics not so much because I knew it would be hard work as because of the amount of time I knew it would take, hours spent in a field where I was not a natural.
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Poetry is any page from a sketchbook of outlines of a doorknob with thumb-prints of dust, blood, dreams.
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Rest is not a word of free people. Rest is a monarchical word.
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Poetry is an enumeration of birds, bees, babies, butterflies, bugs, bambinos, babayagas, and bipeds, beating their way up bewildering bastions.
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Money is power, freedom, a cushion, the root of all evil, the sum of blessings.
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Poetry is the journal of a sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air.
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The machine yes the machine never wastes anybody's time never watches the foreman never talks back.
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I have always felt that a woman has the right to treat the subject of her age with ambiguity until, perhaps, she passes into the realm of over ninety. Then it is better she be candid with herself and with the world.
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You know being born is important to you. You know nothing else was ever so important to you.
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I learned you can't trust the judgment of good friends.
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